


200°C until golden brown

by larkscape



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cooking, Flirting, Frottage, Getting Together, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Piroshki of Friendship, Subby Otabek, Webcam/Video Chat Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-08 14:08:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15245070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larkscape/pseuds/larkscape
Summary: “Ooh, piroshki! For me? Thank you!” Victor grabbed one and bit in, then said around his mouthful,“Vkusno!Cabbage and egg is my favorite kind. How’d you know?”“I didn’t,” Yuri lied. “Shut up and eat. And don’t talk with your mouth full, it’s gross.”Yuri and piroshki and accidental-on-purpose boyfriend acquisition.





	200°C until golden brown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [azimutal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/azimutal/gifts).



> Many thanks to Lady_Ganesh for betaing. :D Any remaining mistakes are my own.

 

It started, as many things did in Yuri's young life, with Grandpa.

“Yurochka! Come keep an old man company in the kitchen.”

Yuri reluctantly put down the plastic soldiers he was playing with and trudged over. He didn't know what was taking so much time in there. Boiling water for tea didn't take much effort, at least not when Mama did it. Maybe Grandpa had a special way.

When he got closer, it became obvious that Grandpa wasn't just making tea. Yuri stopped in the doorway to take in the array of mixing bowls, the chair backed up to the counter, the cutting board, the pile of onions, the beef sitting on butcher’s paper, and Grandpa standing over it all.

“Come in, Yurochka; I promise the flour doesn't bite.”

“What's all that stuff?” Yuri asked, peering around suspiciously.

Grandpa smiled. It made his beard move. “I'm going to teach you how to make piroshki.”

“Piroshki? But don't those come from the store? Mama always gets them from the store.”

“That's because your mother doesn't like to cook.” Oh. That made sense to Yuri; Mama always bought their meals, when she was home at all. Grandpa leaned down, lowering his voice. “But the homemade ones taste better. I'm going to teach you my secret recipe.”

“Secret?” Yuri liked secrets.

“Yes, Yurochka. I first started learning it from my mother when I was about your age. It's a family tradition, just for us.”

“Does Mama know the secret, too?”

“I tried to teach her, but as I said, she doesn't like cooking. You like cooking, though, don't you?”

Because it was Grandpa asking, Yuri gave this question the consideration it was due. “I don't know,” he decided at length.

“Then there's no better time to find out. Here, climb up on the chair so you can see.”

What Yuri found, after he'd helped measure and pour and knead, was that he did like cooking. He especially liked cooking with Grandpa, watching his big hands move so carefully as he demonstrated how to make the right shape with the dough and how to press the edges so the filling stayed inside through the frying.

The piroshki Yuri made were kind of lumpy-looking, but Grandpa smiled at him and ate them anyway.

 

Grandpa was the one to perpetuate it, too — a batch for Yuri’s rinkmates when he was 8 (not that it made them like him any more — he was too good, too quick to learn, and their resentment sour and inevitable); a batch for Yakov after Yuri won his first gold medal in a national-level competition. Baked ones by then, because Yakov had long since outlawed the fried kind, but Grandpa knew his way around an egg wash and the baked ones tasted even better. One more skill Yuri learned in that cramped kitchen.

And always, always a few just for Yuri — every visit, Grandpa had them ready.

 

Yuri slumped onto the rink lobby bench the Tuesday after he got back from Skate Canada, duffel slung over his shoulder, and dropped a brown paper bag into Mila’s lap.

“I can’t believe I lost to that shithead JJ. _And_ Seung Gil. It’s bullshit.”

“You’re too unfocused,” Mila replied without looking up from her phone. “If you want to win in seniors, you have to be ready for that kind of challenge all the time. Hasn’t Yakov been telling you that for the last year?”

“Sure, _you_ can say that; you got gold.”

“Don’t give up yet—”

“Who said anything about—?”

“It’s still early in the season. Pull it together in time for the next GPF event — you’re at the Rostelecom Cup, right? — and you’ll make up the points there.” As if she didn’t know his assignments as well as she knew her own.

“I don’t want to hear it, hag,” he said.

“Ah, so you just want to complain about placing third. Okay, you go ahead; I’ll be here checking my instagram. Let me know if you need a verbal response.”

God, Mila was insufferable. Yuri had no idea why he put up with her.

He elbowed her and gestured to the bag. “Open it.”

Setting down her phone, she did so — purposefully slow, he was sure, just to piss him off — and then said, “You made me prioshki?” with a sort of gleefully wicked look. Which, to be fair, was basically her default expression.

Yuri glowered at her anyway. “No, Grandpa and I just made too big a batch. I can’t eat them all myself. You’re playing garbage disposal for me.”

“Whatever you say. But really, this is the first time you’ve ever brought me your super special secret piroshki; usually it's just for Victor. Do you _like_ me now? Are you going to start looking at me like you look at him? Because I’ve got to tell you, Yurochka, I see you as an annoying little brother.”

 _“Fuck_ no, that's disgusting. And I don’t look at Victor like that, either.”

Mila smirked. “No, you don’t just look at him like you _like_ him, you look at him like you want to _eat_ him. I guess it’s different.”

“What the hell is wrong with you? You have noticed that he’s been dating that Otabek guy for months, right? The one who came out of nowhere for the bronze at Worlds last year?” Otabek, the dark horse: the whole reason Victor took off for that three-week intensive in Almaty over the summer and forgot he was supposed to choreograph Yuri a program. Assholes, the both of them.

“Otabek Altin, yeah, I know; I was at Worlds, too. I watched them leave the banquet together.” She eyed him sideways. “That makes no difference to the thirst; I notice you didn't actually deny it. And your staring started long before they got together. They make a hell of a couple, though, don’t they? Gorgeous.”

“Oh my god, stop talking.”

“But we’re friends now! You brought me piroshki! Mmm, these are really good. I suddenly understand why Victor’s always pestering you to cook for him.”

Yuri huffed. There was no winning with Mila. “Don’t get used to it. This was a one-time thing.”

“Nope, I’m in the Yuri Plisetsky Friendship Piroshki Club now. I expect regular offerings.”

Yuri tried a glare on for size, but Mila had always been immune to his wrath. He shrugged. “Just don’t share them with those hockey assholes you hang out with.”

She shot him an affronted look. “I would _never.”_

Right then, Georgi called out, “Good morning, Yakov!” from somewhere near the building’s entrance and they both scrambled to open their skate bags before their coach caught them slacking off. As Mila slid the bag of piroshki next to her towel and spare hairbrush, she said, “Don’t think I didn’t see that blush. Later, we’re talking about your crush on skating’s latest power couple.”

_“Shut up!”_

“Ha! Win gold at the Cup of China and buy my silence.”

A double win. “I’m holding you to that.”

 

Last winter wasn’t the first time Yuri brought food for Victor, but it was the first time with intent.

“Vitya!” Yuri barked, stalking into the rink. The bag in his hand held the three remaining piroshki from the batch he’d baked for Yakov — at Grandpa’s urging, to thank him for coaching Yuri to Junior GPF gold — and Yuri knew exactly who he wanted to have the last ones.

“Hi, Yura! What’s this?”

Yuri shoved the paper bag into Victor’s chest. “Don’t forget about my program. I kept my end of the deal; you owe me.”

Victor didn’t answer, just opened the bag. “Ooh, piroshki! For me? Thank you!” He grabbed one and bit in, then said around his mouthful, _“Vkusno!_ Cabbage and egg is my favorite kind. How’d you know?”

“I didn’t,” Yuri lied. “Shut up and eat. And don’t talk with your mouth full, it’s gross.”

Victor _did_ forget, though. The only reason Yuri didn’t go haring off to Kazakhstan that summer, too, was the promise that Victor would be back in St. Petersburg as soon as the course was over so Yuri could berate him from the comfort of their home rink.

That didn’t stop Yuri from bringing him piroshki again afterward; he just felt like a fool about it. At least he finally got the program.

 

For months, Yuri’d been catching bits and pieces of Victor's phone conversations with Otabek: the tail end of happy chatter as Victor walked into the rink in the mornings, awful cheesy endearments, some sort of rant about hockey players. Another rant about samurai a couple weeks later. It took a particularly enraged shout of “Why didn’t Isaiah turn Thomas into a dragon, too? Then they could have lived together forever!” for Yuri to work out that they were reading trashy novels together.

But he wasn’t jealous, no matter what Mila tried to say. If anything, he was pissed off. He just wanted Victor to _focus;_ Yuri wanted to compete against him properly, not when he was all distracted by his new boyfriend — and god, was he distracted. Yeah, sure, maybe Yakov was right and Victor’s skating was more expressive these days, but it seemed like every morning started with Yuri having to shout, “Put the fucking phone down!” at Victor’s stupid grinning face.

Then Yuri actually _met_ Otabek at the Grand Prix Final, and things were cast in a new light.

 

“Vitya talks about you a lot,” Otabek said on a terrace in Park Güell, “but even before him, I’d always thought you and I were alike. That's all. Do you want to be friends or not?”

Yuri had been prepared to dismiss Otabek as a temporary annoyance. Victor didn’t usually get so attached, no, but his first love had always been the ice and for better or for worse, Yuri didn’t see that changing any time soon. Otabek couldn’t be anything special.

And yet.

There on that tiled terrace, looking out over the Barcelona sunset, Otabek described a side of Yuri that he’d thought no one else really understood before. Yuri’d been _seen,_ all that time ago, when he hadn’t known anyone was even looking.

A soldier. Where everyone else saw a fairy, saw something delicate and light, Otabek saw a soldier.

With sudden clarity, Yuri knew what had Victor so caught up on this guy; Victor had to be wishing for someone to see him, too. That was certainly hard to come by in this sport.

And Otabek wasn’t just observant, he was driven — driven the way Yuri was driven, the way Victor was driven. He was a great skater, and he rode motorcycles and was just, like, infinitely cool (and what the fuck, why was he with Victor of all people? It’d been months; surely the Nikiforov shine had long worn off), and somehow, despite all that, he was still starstruck by _Yuri._

Who remembers someone's eyes for five years? Otabek, apparently.

Fuck, he was gorgeous. And he was dating Victor.

“Yeah,” Yuri said. “Friends.”

And that was that.

 

Victor was good-looking. Yuri had always known that, long before it ever became a personal observation; Victor Nikiforov was plastered across billboards, in commercial spots, newscasts, spread artfully across the pages of fashion magazines for a large part of Yuri’s life. His chiseled thighs and elegant jawline were cultural background noise. _Obviously_ he was attractive.

Yuri had his first wet dream over one of Victor's Ulysse Nardin ads — and it wasn’t even a racy ad. There was just something in the angle of Victor’s wrist, the line of his forearm, the silver line of the watch band across his skin that burrowed into Yuri’s subconscious and nested there, and then he was waking up to messy sheets and his own dawning self-disgust.

If he was going to have wet dreams, couldn’t they be actually pornographic? Victor looking bored in a button-down wasn’t exactly X-rated. Not what Yuri had imagined having those sorts of dreams about.

And yet every glimpse of Victor’s lean wrists that day at practice brought the memory surging back.

The worst part, though, was actually _knowing_ Victor. He appeared in public as this unflappable figure, cool shades and blown kisses and autographs and selfies with fans, and on the ice he was downright ethereal, but get him someplace he was comfortable letting loose and the man was an unmitigated dumbass. Sharing a rink with him, the mystery had peeled away like old wallpaper.

Victor had a tendency to lose his clothing when drinking. He liked old man card games. He cried over soap operas. He forgot his promises and he was overdramatic about everything and he liked to ruffle Yuri’s hair, which was absolutely inexcusable, and he was still the best skater Yuri had ever seen.

He was, in short, too _real._

Which made the stupid crush all the more awful. And the longer Yuri knew him, the worse it got.

 

When Worlds rolled around, Yuri made Otabek piroshki. As one does. (Beef and onion this time, because that seemed like the sort of filling Otabek would like.) It hadn’t been a big deal before, but then Mila made a point of it and damn it all, she was right; they _were_ special friendship piroshki. Like a rite of passage.

Life was unfair. First Victor and now Otabek—

The universe was out to get him. That was the only explanation. And if it wanted to keep dumping hot, sweet, unattainable guys in Yuri's lap like party favors, he was just going to have to roll with it; no matter what other feelings he might have on the matter, Otabek was his friend first and foremost.

He’d had to stake out the hotel lobby for most of an hour, but his patience paid off — Otabek was here now, standing in the room Yuri was sharing with Victor for the weekend, and Yuri could finally hand over his prize.

Otabek opened the bag Yuri shoved at him and peered inside. “Piroshki?”

“Yeah, my grandpa’s secret recipe. Try one!”

“Thank you, Yura.” He rummaged in the bag. “What brought this on?”

“We’re friends. I mean, we were friends before, but now we’re piroshki friends. …Fuck, that sounds dumb. It’s a thing, really, just ask Mila— no, wait, don’t ask Mila, she’s a lying hag.” And she’d give too much away, gleefully, because she was a troll. “Take my word for it; it’s a thing.”

“Piroshki friends,” Otabek echoed, not actually smiling but giving the impression of it anyway. “Okay. I take it Vitya and Mila are your piroshki friends, too? Then I’m in rarefied company.”

He took a bite and let out a tiny, stuttering moan that had Yuri blushing clear up to his hairline. Otabek was his _friend,_ Otabek was dating Victor who was _also_ his friend, and good friends did not imagine their friends making those noises when they fucked each other.

“Oh _wow,_ these are delicious. Here,” Otabek said, holding out the bag, “you should have one, too. Friends share.”

_Holy fuck, brain, shut up. That's not what he meant._

Yuri reached over and pulled out a piroshki for himself, willing his face to cool. “Thanks. Vitya prefers the cabbage and egg ones, but these are Grandpa’s favorite.”

“Mmm. Your grandfather has good taste.”

The door clicked and they both turned to see Victor striding in. “Beka! I was wondering where you’d disappeared to. Ooh, did Yura bring you his piroshki? I want one!”

“Hi, Vitya,” Otabek said, the corners of his mouth tipping up in the barest tease of a smile as Victor wrapped arms around him from behind. Yuri wasn’t— he wasn’t jealous. Of either of them. That wasn’t what was happening here. Otabek wormed his shoulders further into Victor's embrace and turned his head for what quickly became a very thorough kiss; Yuri caught himself staring at the way their lips moved together and had to force his eyes away.

When the they finally broke apart, Victor dropped his chin to Otabek’s shoulder, and he looked all soft and fond and warm with his arms folded around Otabek. Under Yuri’s ribs, something tightened.

Otabek gestured with the bag, looking to Yuri. “Do you mind if I…?”

 _Fuck this blush._ “I mean, they’re yours. Feed them to whoever you want. But don’t let Vitya fool you; he’s already got his own in his luggage.”

“But I want to eat Beka’s _meat buns.”_ The last part of that sentence involved an extravagant eyebrow motion that no one but Victor Nikiforov could pull off. Yuri groaned. Otabek turned red, his expression pained, and pushed his half-finished piroshki toward Victor’s face.

With a wicked grin, Victor laved Otabek’s finger with his tongue (“I’m _right here!”_ Yuri squawked), then delicately bit off a corner of the piroshki. “Mmm. Yura, how come you never bring me this kind?”

“I thought the cabbage was your favorite!”

“Variety is the spice of life. Besides, what if I have two favorites?”

Before Yuri could work out a response to that — there was no way Victor actually meant what Yuri’s hopeful ears thought he did — Victor pressed a kiss to Otabek’s still-red cheek and started dragging him further into the room. “What are we all standing around for?” he asked. “We’ve got nowhere to be tonight; let’s catch up. Texting just isn’t the same. Come on, Yura, you too.”

Victor smiled at him, and then Otabek gave him that tiny not-smile, too, while Victor stole another bite of piroshki, and Yuri stomped down the stupid, wistful feeling in his gut and followed.

“So Vitya,” Otabek said, “you didn't say earlier; did you finish it?” He allowed himself to be led onto one of the beds and climbed after Victor until they were sitting up against the headboard with Otabek between Victor’s knees. Yuri seated himself on the edge of the mattress and tried not to imagine crawling up there with them.

“On the plane ride,” Victor replied. “I was so mad when Xander pulled that ‘death is noble’ crap! No, you’re getting mugged; protecting your human lover by letting yourself get stabbed and not bothering to heal is not _noble_ , it’s _moronic.”_

Oh hell, they were still doing the book thing.

“Right? Why didn’t he just crawl behind the dumpster after the guy was gone and shift?” Otabek said, brows drawing in. “And then he bled out in Alexey’s arms for no reason at all. When I read that part, I had to remind myself that drowning the book in the bathtub wouldn’t actually change anything.”

Victor smiled sheepishly — if anything he did could ever be considered sheepish. “I threw my copy and accidentally hit Yura.”

That part Yuri remembered. “Yeah, and it fucking hurt! Just be glad you bruised me where my costume will cover it up. Are you guys reading paranormal romances together? Seriously? Is that what’s going on here? Vitya’s a lost cause, but Beka, I thought you at least had better taste than that.”

“It’s sort of an informal book club,” Otabek said, unperturbed, stretching out his leg and nudging Yuri’s hip with his foot.

“No, no, I get it: you're just as much a drama queen as Vitya is, aren't you? You just hide it better.”

Otabek's lips twitched. “Do you want to join us? You should pick the next one; my choices keep turning out awful.”

“I still say we should just get one of those spinning prize wheels and let chance decide,” Victor said, “but maybe you’ll have better luck than either of us, Yura.”

Yuri eyed them both for a long moment, weighing his options. Maintain his dignity, or have a ready-made excuse to text back and forth with the two of them?

“Only if we can do sci-fi stuff, too,” he said at last.

“Sure, I like sci—” Otabek interrupted himself with a yawn. “Oh. Sorry, I just…”

“Planes, right?” Victor asked him with a private little smile, stroking his hair. “You always pass out after a flight. You can nap here, it’s fine.”

Otabek yawned again, then frowned. “No, Vitya, I shouldn’t take up your bed.”

“Don’t I make a good pillow?” Victor asked with a theatrical pout. “We aren’t going anywhere. Besides, when you wake up again, you can try the piroshki Yura made for me. I think you’ll like them.”

“Beka,” Yuri said flatly, because the sly look Victor slanted up at him from over Otabek’s head was giving him palpitations. “Sleep.”

When Otabek’s gaze swung his direction, it was sleepy and soft with affection, and Victor had his fingers in Otabek's hair and a look on his face that hovered somewhere between fond and wicked and—

“I’m going to get dinner,” Yuri said, standing abruptly. He couldn’t handle this. Whatever it was, he _couldn’t handle it._

“Hmm?” Victor said. “No, just order room service; you don’t have to leave. Yura—”

Yuri all but threw himself out of the room.

 

“Look at all that power,” Victor murmured, leaning heavily into Yuri's space as they watched Otabek's short program a day and a half later. “See his jumps? Such intensity. The strength in his thighs alone… Can you imagine, Yura?”

“Imagine _what?”_ Yuri spat. Victor just hummed knowingly.

“His layback is so deep,” Otabek said quietly, later, when Victor was on the ice. “He’s very flexible.” The rink air was cold and Otabek's shoulder was warm against his, and Otabek really didn't need to be sitting that close, did he?

Yuri was losing his damn mind.

No one, _no one_ could drop that many hints by accident. There was no way. And yet it had to be true, because the other option was that Victor and Otabek were both flirting with him. Simultaneously.

Optimism was one thing and delusion was another, and Yuri knew how to tell the fucking difference, thanks.

 

“Tell us, Yura, how does it feel to take home Worlds bronze in your senior debut?” Mila asked for the third time in the last hour, leering, leaning over the armrest and across the aisle.

Yuri slumped in his seat. Victor was asleep next to him and his head kept lolling onto Yuri's shoulder. “I don't know, how does it feel to lose gold to Sara Crispino by less than two points for the second time in a row?”

Mila laughed. “It feels like I'll be buying her a drink next time I see her.”

Victor shifted in his sleep again. His nose found its way into the hollow above Yuri's collarbone.

Fucking hell. He couldn't take this.

“Haven't you had enough yet?” Mila asked. “You three were all over each other this weekend.”

Yuri huffed. “It doesn't mean anything. You know what Vitya's like.”

With a pointed look at Victor's slack face nestled in Yuri's neck, Mila said, “You sure about that?”

 

Victor started a group text as soon as the plane landed, ostensibly for their book group thing.

The first message belied that idea.

‘Beka, you promised me way more romance than I got this weekend (((’

‘It was all a ploy. Now you’ll have to come visit if you want those roses.’

'Beka!!! ❤’

'omg am i going to have to watch u flirt like this all the time? jfc not in group text fuck u guys’

‘Yura, you should come, too. I miss your prickly company already.’

‘u'd spend the whole time making out with vitya, no thx’

‘We can see Beka's ice show! That's a great idea ))))))’

‘what happened to picking a book?’

 

They'd been home a week. A _week._ (Including the two days Yuri spent in Moscow, celebrating with Grandpa and eating more piroshki than Yakov would ever approve of. Not that Yakov would even know. It was the off-season now, and Grandpa had a new filling he wanted to try.)

A week of constant group texting, a week of Victor invading his personal space at every opportunity, a week of shared jokes and double entendres and Otabek’s increasingly exasperated videos of costume fittings for the ice show. Not that Otabek ever got exasperated, but his impatience was palpable in the way he stared down the camera, inviting them to share in his vexation.

‘The designer can’t decide between the light blue and the dark blue for accents.’

‘didn’t he figure that shit out days ago?’

‘Tell him to go with the light blue, it looks stunning on you. Don’t you agree, Yura?’

Shit, they _were_ flirting with him, weren't they?

And then Victor invited Yuri over to his apartment for dinner and answered the door in a silver shirt unbuttoned halfway down, his hair all disheveled in that way that meant he'd spent hours making it look accidental, ushering Yuri inside and babbling all the while, and he was just _infuriatingly_ attractive and—

Oh, fuck this. Fine. They wanted to play this game? Yuri would play. Yuri was all in.

“—and I made the borscht with extra carrots, just for you—” Victor was saying.

Yuri stalked past him into the kitchen, digging his phone out of his pocket and stabbing at it until Otabek’s name came up. He hit ‘call’ and then ‘speaker’ and set it on the counter, watching Victor animatedly describing his cooking process as it rang. Tension started coiling in his stomach.

He’d been all in for ages, really, and he was only fooling himself if he’d thought otherwise. Fuck. Hopefully this wouldn't blow up in his face.

“Unless you tell me not to,” Yuri said the moment Otabek picked up, “I'm going to kiss your boyfriend. Right now.”

Ha, that shut Victor up. For the moment, at least. He had this fantastic shell-shocked look on his face. What, he thought he could pull the tiger's tail and not get bitten?

The triumph was short-lived.

“Hi, Beka!” Victor chirped, recovering, bumping Yuri’s shoulder and pretending to be oblivious — but Yuri could see the keen way Victor watched him, could feel it in the tightness between his shoulder blades. “Yura finally came over for dinner; can you believe it?”

There was a long pause, and then a quiet, “Mmm. Hi, Vitya.”

“Beka, I got the best present for us. I'll give you a hint: he's blond and grumpy and very kissable.”

Yuri's whole heart was lodged in his throat. “…Are you going to tell me not to?”

“That depends.” Otabek drew a shaky-sounding breath. “Are you going to kiss me, too, the next time we see each other?”

Yuri's air left him in a rush as his veins flooded with heat. God, he wished Otabek wasn't half a continent away. “Is that even a question? Beka, you don't have to lie. I know I was doing a shit job of hiding how much I want you both; there's dense and then there's _dense.”_

 _“Mmm._ I could say the same to you.” The wobble in Otabek’s voice shot straight into Yuri’s chest and filled it with molten gold. Next to him, Victor perked up even further somehow and squeezed Yuri's hand, flashing a grin. Yuri squeezed back.

“Okay,” Otabek said slowly, “then what about this: what if I asked you to video call me while you kiss him?”

 _Fuck._ “Then I'd do it right now and we'd give you a hell of a show. You want me to?”

“I— please? Would you?”

Yuri had to take a moment to come to terms with that needy tone in Otabek's voice being directed at _him._ Then he grabbed for his phone to pull up the app, only for Victor to beat him to it, snatching it out from under Yuri’s fingers and tapping away.

“See, Beka?” Victor said once Otabek was onscreen, chuckling, angling the phone until they were both in camera range. “I told you he’d be into it.”

“I see.” Otabek watched them with dark eyes, his lips slightly parted. He was at home, it looked like: dark cushions behind him suggested a couch. It was late in Almaty.

Victor leaned into Yuri's side, mouth to Yuri's ear with his gaze still on the phone screen, and added in a stage whisper, “He never quite believed you'd go for both of us.”

“And what about you?” Yuri asked, low, as a shiver traveled down his back. “Did you believe it, Vitya?”

Victor shrugged and drew back a little, smiling warmly. “Only partway, but I generally prefer optimism. Looks like it worked out for me this time, didn’t it?”

“Your luck is boundless.” But he had to ask. “Why are you…”

“You know, Yura, Beka here told me very early on that I talk about you a lot. Turns out he was right, and he knew why better than I did.” He brushed Yuri’s hair back. “Now I think you said something about kissing…?”

His fingers were so warm.

Yuri fell forward and up, drawn in by Victor's hand on his face until their chests pressed together, until Victor leaned down so their noses brushed— and paused, bare millimeters from Victor’s lips, to glance over at Otabek’s face on the phone screen. “Beka. Last chance. Yes or no?”

_“Yes.”_

At that, Victor tipped Yuri's chin up with the side of one finger, and his eyes closed, and then — because Victor was obviously aiming for slow and sweet and Yuri had never been in the habit of capitulation, and especially not to Victor — Yuri grabbed him by the shoulders and kissed the hell out of him.

Victor made a surprised 'mmph!’ that got lost in Yuri's mouth and promptly melted into the kiss, soft lips and searching tongue and little noises that Yuri drank like water. Yuri nipped his lower lip sharply and swallowed down the surprised moan Victor gave him, pressed deeper for more, stepped in as close as he could get and felt Victor’s heat all down his body. Victor kept him near with fingers tight on his jaw, not that he would have retreated anyway, and Yuri wound his arms around Victor’s shoulders so he could get his hands in that hair and mess it up further.

It was everything Yuri had never let himself think about. A shock down his spine, electrifying, a sweet sucking pressure all the way to his core and a warmth he didn’t want to name. He forgot about Otabek on the other end of a video call, forgot that there was supposed to be dinner waiting somewhere, forgot everything that wasn't Victor's hot mouth on his.

“Yura…” Victor murmured.

Yuri caught his face in both hands and dragged him even closer. One taste of Victor and Yuri was addicted. He licked back into his mouth, sucked on his lip, bit and kissed and felt the breath mingle between them.

“Vitya,” Otabek said from somewhere too low, his voice as close to plaintive as it ever got, “I can't see.”

Reluctantly, Yuri let Victor pull back. Not too far, though. He kept their foreheads together, kept his fingers laced together behind Victor’s neck.

“Ah, sorry, Beka,” Victor said, lifting the phone again. “Yura is distracting. You'll like kissing him; he's good at it.”

Yuri smirked. “Damn right, I am.”

The light in Otabek’s living room was terrible, but Yuri was pretty sure that was a flush on his face. “I can’t wait.”

“Mmm,” Yuri said, rolling his forehead against Victor’s. “I promised you a show, didn’t I? Vitya, come here; we’ve got to make this worth Beka’s while. Don’t drop the phone this time.” And then he rocked up again, pulling Victor’s face down and stealing another taste of his lips.

Damn, Victor was good at this. Given warning, he took charge more, steering Yuri’s head to just the right angle and kissing deep. All but devouring him. _Mmm._ He hoped the camera angle was good for Otabek, because he couldn’t spare the will to open his eyes, too lost in the taste of Victor’s tongue and the slow, filthy slide of lips.

These pants were way too tight. Skinny jeans were a bad idea.

Victor’s mouth, however, was a _great_ idea.

Eventually, Victor broke the kiss, and by the time Yuri could see again, there was definitely a flush visible on Otabek’s face. He looked a little lost for words.

“I think the old man’s knees are going to give out,” Yuri told him, trying not to show how breathless he was. His own knees might give out, too, but he wasn’t going to mention that. “Wait a second so we can get to the couch.”

“Yura, we don’t have to—” Victor started to say as Yuri carted him out of the kitchen.

“Do _you_ want to slow down? Ha. Thought not. Now go sit down so I can make you come.”

Victor dropped onto the couch with a wailing noise and dragged his free hand over his face. “Beka, I’ve unleashed a monster.”

“Did you expect anything different?” Otabek asked at the same time as Yuri said, “You knew what you were getting into,” and Victor grinned weakly at them both. Yuri climbed into his lap, swiveling his hips on the very nice erection he found there.

“Lean the phone up on the lamp. There, yeah, so Beka can see. You good, Beka?”

Otabek gave them a thumbs up from the phone’s new perch on the side table, and that gesture, of all things, was what gave Yuri pause.

“Shit, Beka, did _you_ want to slow down? It’s— he’s your boyfriend, and here I am, charging in while you’re— _fuck—”_

“Yura.” Otabek looked straight into the camera. “Keep going.”

“…Yeah?”

“Yes. Please. I want…” His voice trailed off, and Yuri was struck by a thought.

“Hey, Beka. Can I— will you…” Yuri darted a glance at Victor’s face, flushed and bright-eyed, then back at the phone screen. “Touch yourself for us? I want to see. I think Vitya does, too.”

Otabek’s eyes got huge, and dark, and he was very still. Then, in a low voice, he asked, “Where?”

Oh.

Oh, there were _possibilities_ here.

Victor leaned in to plant a kiss on Yuri's collarbone, then licked up the line of his throat, and Yuri had to bite back a moan. “Tell him, Yura. He’ll listen.”

One man should not be given so much power. Yuri shivered with it, with everything: the heat of Victor’s body under his thighs, the tongue slipping over his throat, the dazed look on Otabek’s face, obvious even on the small screen. Victor nipped at the side of his neck and Yuri bucked in his lap.

“Your— Beka, touch your throat, god, _Vitya.”_

Otabek’s hand came up and spread across the front of his shirt, meandered higher to trace over the line of his throat and all the way up to his jaw, slid slowly back down until his fingertips caught in his shirt collar. Yuri couldn’t pay as much attention to the show as he’d have liked because Victor was working his hands under Yuri’s shirt and massaging the sense right out of him.

“Yura,” Victor murmured against his skin, quiet, dazed. “Yura. Yura. So beautiful. Isn’t he beautiful, Beka?”

Otabek groaned in response.

“Take it off,” Yuri gasped, and he didn’t know if he was talking to Victor or to Otabek but they both obeyed; Victor stripped Yuri’s shirt right off, and when Yuri looked over at the phone again, Otabek was tossing his own shirt behind him.

“Fuck, Beka— I want to touch you, too. Why are you so far away?”

“Beka,” Victor said, all deep and gravelly, his eyes glued to Otabek's image on the screen. “Look at you. So good, so lovely. Play with your nipples for us? Yes, yes, like that. Oh, I wish we were with you. What did I do to deserve you both?”

“Vitya,” Yuri said, hiding a smile in Victor’s neck and running both hands up his chest, “you are way too… too…”

“Too what?” Victor asked teasingly, stroking the peak of Yuri’s hip bone with his thumb. “Lucid? Eloquent? Loquacious?”

Yuri laughed. “Too _fuck you,_ that’s what. Beka, is he always like this during sex?”

“Yes,” Otabek said on a moan. Which might have been a genuine response to the question and might have been because he was pinching his nipple so hard his whole body bowed with it. Didn’t matter either way. Victor tipped Yuri backward, supporting him with arms along his spine, then followed Otabek’s example and fastened his lips to Yuri’s right nipple, and Yuri’s delighted groan broke into pieces. He arched into the suction, gasping, grinding down on Victor’s hard cock trapped beneath him. His hands fisted in Victor’s shirt at the shoulders.

“Like this,” Victor said, pulling them back upright, his breath warm on Yuri’s at the base of Yuri’s neck, his hands — strong and big and hot, so hot — spreading over Yuri’s hips. Rocking them together. “Just like this. Ah, _yes.”_

“Vitya, _fuck,_ that feels so fucking good. Beka, can you see him?”

Otabek whimpered, his fingers wandering down his naked chest. “Yura, can I…?”

“Get your damn cock out, Beka, I want to see your hand on it. I want to see Vitya’s hand on it, holy shit he has nice hands, bet they’d— oh fuck, _ah—”_

Yuri cut off with a cry because Victor was unzipping him, wrestling his pants off and pulling his cock free, a little rough with desperation and even better for it. Those long fingers wrapped around him, stroking, rubbing under the head — and then they were unzipping Victor’s slacks, too, shoving the fabric down. When Victor snapped his hips, their naked cocks rubbed together. Yuri jolted at the contact and wound his fingers into Victor’s hair, his other hand dropping to clutch frantically at Victor’s waist and rucking up that stupidly sexy shirt.

“Vitya,” Yuri moaned, the name falling out of his mouth like so much noise, senseless with need. “Vitya, Vitya, Vitya—”

Victor’s eyes slipped closed as he turned his head and kissed the inside of Yuri’s forearm, hot, sucking, his teeth grazing Yuri’s skin, his hips still rolling — steady, slow and insistent. Not enough; too much. Yuri shuddered, his fingers relaxing their hold on Victor’s hair, and Victor’s lips worked their way up to his wrist, where they paused to play over the thin skin at his pulse point. The tip of his tongue slid along tendons, up into the hollow where wrist met palm. He planted a wet kiss there. Nuzzled his cheek into Yuri’s open hand.

When his eyes opened again, they were so, so blue. Yuri felt like he was drowning in them.

“Yura,” Victor whispered, set his teeth to Yuri’s wrist, and drove their cocks together.

 _“Ah—”_ Yuri’s whole body seized up with a snarling pleasure.

Victor made this wounded sound, shaking, his fingers digging into Yuri’s ass. He held Yuri there and rutted against him, again and again, jerky and animal and graceless and still beautiful with his cheek pressed into Yuri’s wrist, and Yuri dropped his head and came in a wet, helpless rush.

Oh, _god._ Fuck.

 _“Vitya,”_ he groaned, unsteady and overwhelmed. Victor’s arms circled his waist and carried him through it.

He floated back to his body in time to hear Victor goading Otabek on. “Beka, so hot, so— did you see that? Did you watch him? Let us see you come, too, Beka. I— _oh—_ I want to watch you fall apart. I wish I could touch you like you’re touching yourself.”

Otabek must have set his phone down on the cushions at some point. When Yuri turned his head, the screen held a perfect low-angle profile view of him: spine curved away from the back of the couch, mouth hanging open around a moan, one hand tugging on his nipple and the other jerking his cock with his sleep pants halfway down his thighs.

He was so goddamn gorgeous.

“Beka,” Yuri croaked. Shit, his voice was all scratchy. “I want to… want to put my mouth on you, _fuck.”_

With a choked cry, Otabek sped his pace, twisting his head on the back of the couch.

Victor was still clutching Yuri, still thrusting his cock through the mess between them, driving along Yuri’s softening length — and that was going to become too much very quickly, but Yuri rolled his hips into it anyway because he needed to see Victor break apart, needed to see him come while he was trapped under Yuri’s weight with their names on his tongue.

He locked his knees around Victor and crushed their bodies together, tight as he could get, arms wrapped around Victor’s shoulders and rocking in little circles on his cock. Victor thrashed under him. Whined, high and breathy. Yuri was going to steal that sound and keep it locked in his chest forever; he captured Victor’s face between his hands and kissed him sloppily, wet, all tongues and panting breath and distraction. Victor gripped his hips and bucked, groaning into his mouth.

“Vitya,” Yuri murmured. “I want you to come while we’re watching Beka.”

 _“Ah—_ yes, yes, god, _Yura.”_

“Open your eyes. Yeah.” Yuri nudged the corner of his jaw with his nose. “Now look.”

“Beka—” Victor’s voice was shaking, thin with need. “Beka.”

Otabek made this weak, desperate noise in response, looking down at them through the phone screen. “Vitya,” he gasped. The muscles in his forearm stood out as he thrust into his fist. “Yura, _please.”_

 _“Fuck,_ Beka,” Yuri said, grinding down on Victor. “I can’t wait to see you in person. I’m going to— god, going to lick your abs, swallow your cock, fuck, can’t wait to get my hands on you—”

Otabek twisted, and whined, _“—oh, hnn,”_ and squeezed himself, and came in thick spurts all over his stomach with his teeth digging into his lip. Yuri’s whole body ached to touch him. Victor whimpered under him, hips pumping, working his cock in the cradle of Yuri’s pelvis. He was so close to orgasm that he shook with it.

“Look,” Yuri whispered, “look at that. Look at him.”

“Yura, _ah—”_

Then Victor was coming, too, hot and slick on Yuri’s skin, curling in with gasping moans that he tried to bury in Yuri’s shoulder. Yuri held him close, kissing his hair and petting his sides and watching as Otabek slumped into a couch too far away in Almaty.

 

“It’s still another month before the ice show starts,” Yuri said once Victor had come back to himself, “and I don’t like waiting.”

Otabek was using his discarded shirt to wipe the come off his stomach, but he paused and looked at them through the phone screen when Yuri’s words registered. “Waiting?”

Victor perked up. “Yura, have you ever been to Kazakhstan?” he asked brightly.

Oh, no, Yuri knew that look; it was the look Victor got whenever he came up with a great idea that would inconvenience a whole lot of people other than himself. ...Hmm. Not ‘oh, no,’ after all. Yuri was included in the fun part of the idea this time. He felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Yakov is going to murder you,” he said. “He’s going to murder us both.”

“When has that ever stopped either of us before? Ooh, he’s going to be _so mad.”_ Victor sounded pleased. He dug in his back pocket for his own phone, nearly unseating Yuri in the process, and then his fingers were busy on the screen for a long moment. Yuri shared a knowing look with Otabek.

“Okay, Beka,” Victor said, “we’ll see you in about, oh, 28 hours or so. Can you pick us up at the airport?”

“Both of you at once?” Otabek lifted one arm and flexed, contemplating his bicep. “Probably.”

“You,” Yuri groaned, “are a fucking dork. No wonder you two like each other so much.”

“We like you, too,” Victor said with a grin. “What does that say? Now come on, let me feed you the dinner you were promised. The lamb should still be warm; I left it in the oven. After that, we have packing to do.”

 

As soon as he caught sight of Otabek’s dark hair through the crowd around the airport gate, Yuri stormed over and kissed the breath out of him, publicity be damned. He could feel the curve of Otabek’s lips as he smiled that tiny smile into the kiss, and then Victor swooped in around them with a laugh and tucked them under his arms to lead them out into the sunshine.

Otabek’s apartment wasn’t far, and the whole trip passed in chatter about his upcoming ice show. Yuri wanted to see the contentious costume in person. He was still convinced that the designer had a couple screws loose.

“You’re going to inspire so many people,” Victor said as Otabek unlocked his front door and led them inside. “A whole new wave of young skaters for Kazakhstan.”

There was that smile again, small and proud, just for them.

“Come on,” Yuri said, grabbing Otabek with one hand and pulling out his phone with the other, jerking his head at Victor and steering them all into the kitchen. He knew exactly what he wanted to do to mark the occasion.

On his phone, he tapped his favorite contact.

“Hi, Grandpa! Is it okay if I teach Vitya and Beka your secret piroshki recipe?”

 


End file.
